Uninvited
by Ossian
Summary: All's fair in love... and bio-warfare. - Snarkney, mid-S2, early S3
1. Default Chapter

A fluffy AU Sarkney story set in… eh, let's say the Second Season.  
  
Uninvited  
  
by Ossian  
  
* * * *  
  
Sydney Bristow looked through the eyehole in the hotel room door and muttered a very unladylike expletive. She blinked rapidly and checked the view again. He was still standing there - looking patient and amused, as if he knew it was only a matter of time before her curiosity got the better of her. She stepped back, folded her arms crossly, and glared at the door. Her imagination unhelpfully supplied a mental picture of the smirking bastard anyway.  
  
"What the hell do you want?" she demanded as she flung open the door. Sark held both hands in the air, a gesture of his benign intentions that she didn't buy for a second. She crossed her arms again and scowled at him… only to realize her error an instant later as he took advantage of her position to sweep past her into the room. "What do you think you're doing?"  
  
"I need someplace to stay," he said, collapsing onto the bed as gracelessly as she'd ever seen him. She could hear the amusement in his voice despite its being muffled by a pillow.  
  
"What? No! Get up. Get out. What the hell are you thinking?" She stared at him as he rolled over and kicked off his shoes.  
  
"I was burned this evening because of you," he said as if he thought he was going to try explaining himself to her. "I'm currently cashless, creditless, and roomless and my flight out isn't until nine a.m. tomorrow."  
  
"Why don't you go hack into the hotel's network -preferably in some other hotel- and steal yourself a room?"  
  
"Because it's late, I'm tired, and you already have a room."  
  
"Why don't you go make nice with some gullible woman at the bar downstairs who'd no doubt be happy to put up with you for the night?"   
  
"Happy to put up with me?" he repeated in mock puzzlement, then his expression cleared. "Ah, yes. Because I'm cute. Wasn't that it?" She flushed and her scowl deepened as she suddenly regretted having ever made that admission even in a sarcastic quip. "Being nice is more work than hacking the reservations computer," he continued with a grin.   
  
"And how high does convincing me to let you stay here rank on the effort scale? Because I think you may have seriously overestimated your chances."  
  
"I assure you, I'll be no trouble whatsoever."  
  
"Damn right you won't - because you're leaving." She had a moment of triumph as he sat up abruptly, but it was quickly crushed as she realized that he was merely taking off his jacket and tie. He tossed both over the back of the nearby chair and lay back down again. "I mean it, Sark! Get out!"  
  
"If you didn't want me here, you shouldn't have let me in."  
  
"I didn't let you in!"  
  
"You opened the door."  
  
It took an enormous amount of effort to not literally growl her frustration. She watched in astonishment as he closed his eyes and looked to all appearances as if he was settling in for the night. It was then that she realized nothing short of drawing a gun was going to get him to leave. And quite possibly that wouldn't work either. As she began to study him she could see the dark rings under his eyes and the gray cast of his skin. He actually did look exhausted.   
  
"You can't stay here," she said, trying to sound reasonable. "Dixon is just across the hall."  
  
"Bloody good thing I got the right door then," he muttered sleepily and she was surprised to hear his ordinarily crisp accent start to slur.  
  
She couldn't help snorting impatiently at him - for all the good it did. He looked half-asleep already. She stared at him a little longer before retreating to the bathroom to strategize how best to oust him without getting herself thrown out of the hotel as well. It wasn't until she shut the door and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror that she remembered what she was wearing - a tank top and a pair of baggy shorts. Her hair was pulled up in an inelegant ponytail and every vestige of her day's disguising makeup had been scrubbed off as soon as she'd gotten here.   
  
Lovely, she thought wryly. Great contrast to the poster boy for Suave Spies 'R Us that was presently sprawled on the bed that she had absolutely no intention of sharing with him. After she'd brushed her teeth and finished the rest of her ablutions she realized that she still had no new plan. She was annoyed to discover that Sark had taken advantage of her absence to further entrench himself in her room.   
  
The rest of his suit was neatly folded over the chair now and he was nestled beneath the covers. She scowled at him again although he was utterly oblivious. Making a sudden decision, she crossed the room and bent over him until they were nose to nose.  
  
"Two conditions," she said when he opened his eyes. "You can stay on two conditions."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"One, get out of my bed. You can sleep on the floor."  
  
He frowned but didn't argue. "And two?"  
  
"Your name."  
  
He stared at her blankly.  
  
"Your name," she said again. "Your first name. Your given name. Your real honest-to-god actual on-your-birth-certificate name."  
  
"You want to know my name?"  
  
"Damn it, Sark. It's not that difficult a question."  
  
"That's one of your conditions?" He still sounded baffled. "My name?"  
  
"Don't make me shoot you."  
  
"Fine, fine," he said, sitting up. "It's just such an odd request."  
  
"No. It's really not. It's something that normal people do all the time. They tell each other their names. Let's pretend -just for the moment- that you can be normal."  
  
"Fine," he said again with a weary sigh. "Martin. My name is Martin."  
  
"Martin?"  
  
"Martin James Sark, to be exact. Happy now?"  
  
She tilted her head and studied him - white t-shirt, dark boxers and all. Were those black or dark blue?  
  
"They're blue."  
  
She flushed once again. "You don't look like a Martin," she said, dragging her gaze back up to his smirking face.  
  
He rolled his eyes. "I'm terribly sorry it doesn't meet your expectations. Take it up with the nuns."  
  
"Nuns?"  
  
"I've met your two conditions," he said. "We are not playing Twenty Questions."  
  
Her eyes were drawn inexorably to the pale scar on his left thigh as he picked up a pillow and twitched the top cover off the bed. I have officially lost my mind, she thought as she watched him lie down on the floor between the bed and the window. I should be kicking him out the door. Instead, I'm letting him camp out here as if he wasn't a homicidal sociopath who'd probably happily strangle me in my sleep. The part of her brain that hadn't packed up and left already pointed out that he didn't look particularly homicidal wrapped up in a fluffy lilac-colored hotel blanket.  
  
"It's very dusty down here," he complained, wrinkling his nose as he squinted up at her. "I really would have expected better accommodations for the taxpayers' money. You ought to come work for me. The pay scale is considerably more generous."  
  
She snorted as she climbed into her empty but still warm bed. "Impressive offer from a guy sleeping on a borrowed floor. If I was working for you, it looks like we'd have both been out of a room for the night."  
  
"If you'd been working for me, we wouldn't have been competing this evening and I wouldn't have gotten burned when your little plan went awry."  
  
"Amateur. You're not blaming me for your screw-ups."  
  
"Of course not. I'm blaming you for yours." He propped himself up on one elbow to give her a reproachful frown. "Your alarm bypass protocol was faulty. I would have expected better from you. I'm very disappointed, Agent Bristow."  
  
"Shut up, Marty, or you can take your disappointment on a road trip."  
  
"You know I'm going to have to kill you before…" Whatever he'd intended to say was suddenly curtailed by a violent cough. Sydney stared at him in alarm, despite reminding herself that she didn't care if the irksome assassin hacked up a lung. She also reminded herself that she didn't feel the least bit of concern when he closed his eyes, appearing even more drained than before, and didn't finish his snappy comeback. "Dusty down here," he said again as he pulled the blanket tighter around himself.  
  
Sydney frowned at him over the edge of the mattress. The cough had been far too deep to be dust-induced and shouldn't have exhausted him the way it seemed to. Almost without thinking, she reached down and pressed her fingertips against his forehead. He grimaced in annoyance but didn't move away.  
  
"You have a fever," she informed him.  
  
"I'm fine," he replied crossly.  
  
"You really ought to know better than to attempt an op when you aren't at your best. I'm very disappointed, Mr. Sark."  
  
"I'm not sick."  
  
"Of course not," she grinned as she lay back down. Men. You could divide them into two categories: the ones who were convinced that they were dying at the slightest sniffle and the ones who pretended that they were perfectly fine until they keeled over. Somehow she wasn't shocked that Sark apparently fell into the latter group. "You don't snore, do you?"  
  
"I've been assured that I don't."  
  
"Not even when you have a cold?"  
  
"Goodnight, Agent Bristow," he said firmly.  
  
"Goodnight, Marty." She couldn't help snickering at the theatrical sigh from the floor.  
  
"Seven a.m. - receive morning wake-up call," he muttered. "Seven-oh-three - murder Sydney Bristow."  
  
"You're not being very gracious considering that I ought to be handcuffing you to something large and unmovable until morning."  
  
"Delightful as that sounds, I'm really much too tired."  
  
She briefly debated throwing her pillow at him but decided that she probably wouldn't get it back without a fight. Besides, he was coughing again. When the fit was over, Sark's inclination to swap insults and innuendoes with her seemed to have passed as well. Sydney listened to his uneven breathing until it eventually leveled out and deepened. It was an oddly reassuring sound despite its coming from a man who was her sworn enemy. No, that was a bit too dramatic. Adversary? Opponent? It wasn't as if their rivalry was anything personal. And it would be insane to let an enemy sleep on her floor. She had nearly drifted off -her head full of muddled musings on Sark's status- when his ragged hacking jolted her fully awake again.   
  
"Sorry," he murmured, sounding almost as though he meant it.  
  
It happened twice again and she ground her teeth in irritation. The fourth time his coughing roused her she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed.   
  
"I've had enough," she told him. "This isn't working."  
  
He looked up at her with an utterly pathetic expression. The dark circles had become even more pronounced and his eyes were fever-bright. She sighed as she rose and pulled a long-sleeved shirt on over her tank top.  
  
"What are you doing?" he rasped as she tied her shoes.  
  
"Do you trust me?"  
  
"No."  
  
"If I was going to throw you out or turn you in or shoot you, I would have done it by now. Trust me for ten minutes." He continued to stare at her suspiciously but made no further inquiries. "Ten minutes," she repeated as she left the room.  
  
It took her twenty. When she got back, she wasn't particularly surprised to discover that he'd reclaimed his spot in her bed.   
  
"Sit up." She raised an eyebrow as he pulled a handgun from beneath his pillow and set it on the nightstand. "Customized O'Dwyer? Pretty."   
  
"It has its uses," he said with a shrug. "What's that?"  
  
"I couldn't find any Nyquil here," she replied. "I don't know exactly what it is, but I've been guaranteed that it'll knock you out cold. I think it must be about half alcohol, half codeine."  
  
"Sounds perfect."  
  
She poured him a full dose and a half and he tossed it off like a shot. By the time she had taken her shoes off and undressed again, he appeared to be nearly asleep already. Somehow she couldn't find it in her heart to kick him out of the bed again.  
  
"You'd better stay on your half," she warned as she lay down beside him. An incoherent half-hearted mumble was his only response.  
  
The next time he woke her wasn't entirely unpleasant. It took her a moment to remember whose arm was wrapped possessively around her waist and whose cheek rested against her shoulder. It was the sweet scent of cough syrup on his breath that reminded her at last. She sighed in resignation and raised a hand to his face. His skin was warm but not hot beneath her fingers. She touched his forehead, his cheek, the back of his neck. At least his fever seemed to be gone. She was slightly discomfited as his body seemed to interpret her clinical examination as a caress - his arm tightening around her, his mouth brushing against her jaw.   
  
She knew that she ought to give his ear a good yank and shove him away from her. That was a good plan. Kick his shins until he untangled his legs from hers. Dig her fingers into his dark blond locks and pull his head off her pillow. Definitely smart ideas. She got as far as raking her hand through his sleep-tousled hair before giving up. Too much effort, too early in the morning. Maybe later.  
  
When the tiny travel alarm clock went off, Sydney woke alone. There was no O'Dwyer on the nightstand. No bottle of frightful generic cough medicine beside the lamp. There was no dark Italian suit folded over the chair and no pair of expensive leather loafers on the floor. Part of her was half-convinced that she'd dreamed the whole bizarre incident, but the sheets on his side of the bed were still warm. She rose reluctantly and stumbled into the bathroom. Something there struck her as peculiar, but she couldn't put her finger on it. Everything was still arranged exactly as she'd left it. One of the towels was damp, but that didn't bother her. She frowned at the toiletries on the cabinet, her mind slowly reviving as she tried to determine what seemed so off.  
  
Then she saw it.  
  
"Son of a bitch!"  
  
Her toothbrush was wet. The sick bastard -and she meant that literally- had used her toothbrush. As she began to fondly plot the best way to torture him before throttling him, she felt a shudder begin to rise in her chest. Once the first coughing fit passed, she squeezed the toothpaste onto the brush. Any fear of catching his cold had been allayed. She'd already caught it. She really was going to have to kill him the next time their paths crossed.  
  
* * * * 


	2. two

* * * *  
  
-three months later-  
  
When the door opened she glared at him, daring him to make just one smart-ass comment. Just one. And she'd rip his pretty blond head right off his shoulders. She knew that she was a sight. She was dripping wet from her tangled hair to the soles of her bare feet and she didn't even want to think about what the water had done to her dress. He pursed his lips -no doubt struggling to suppress the smirk- and stepped aside with a flourish of his arm to usher her into his hotel room.  
  
"To what do I owe this dubious honor, Agent Bristow?" Sark asked as she stomped across the threshold.  
  
"You know damn well what you owe it to, Marty," she snapped. "You deliberately tipped off those guards that I was there."  
  
"You would have done... In fact, you have done the same thing to me. Several times."  
  
"I have cable burns on my hand because of you," she continued irritably, waving the offended member at him.  
  
"I'm sorry." His grin was beginning to show. "Did one of us switch sides and I somehow failed to notice?"  
  
"I broke a heel and twisted my ankle."  
  
"We aren't allies, you know."  
  
"I had to swim in the Seine!"  
  
"So I deduced. How ever did you get past the concierge looking like that?"  
  
"You used my toothbrush!"  
  
He blinked at her. Then the grin widened. Turned into a snort. A chuckle. It was a full-blown laugh by the time she stomped into the bathroom and slammed the door.  
  
Maybe this hadn't been the most well-thought-out plan of all time, she admitted as she scowled at herself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. But it was the first thing that had come to mind when she'd crawled out of that disgusting river onto the wrong bank at the wrong end of the city. She was not about to hitchhike all the way back across Paris looking like a drowned rat just to spend the night in that flea-trap hotel with cockroaches the size of small Buicks. Not when the cocky bastard who was responsible for her predicament was currently ensconced in one of the classiest hotels in town.  
  
Damn. Her reflection widened its eyes in belated comprehension and horror. She'd walked right into it. He had taunted her at the embassy where they'd crossed paths just a few hours ago. He'd teased her about her civil servant accommodations while boasting of his own five-star lodgings. Then he'd pocketed the files that she'd been sent to retrieve, ducked out of the office, and sent the goons in after her.  
  
He couldn't have known what she would have to do to evade capture. He couldn't possibly have predicted that she'd be forced to dive into the Seine to escape or that her moonlight swim would wash her up mere blocks from his hotel. But he'd planted the damn seed and when she had seen the glowing sign, she had known he was there. That, apparently, was when the irrationality had set in. She had suffered a bout of momentary insanity that had carried her up the street, through the back alley, up the service elevator, and to his door.  
  
He owed her, damn it.  
  
And this was a really nice bathroom.  
  
It was nearly as big as the entire hotel room she'd had the night he'd barged in on her. The vast expanse of sparkling white tile made her feel even grimier than ever and the enormous mirror hid nothing. Her hair desperately needed washing. There was a smudge of something across her forehead that she didn't want to identify. And her dress was absolutely ruined. She picked dispiritedly at the stained fabric and tugged futilely on the sodden tie-fastener at the base of her neck.  
  
"Does this mean you've reconsidered my offer of employment?" he asked through the door. There was still a snicker in his voice.  
  
"No, it does not." There was no way she was going to be able to unravel the wet string.  
  
"Do you want some help with that knot?" Oh, he just had to go and be Mr. Observant, didn't he?  
  
"No."  
  
"Allow me to rephrase the question. Do you need some help with it?"  
  
"No." Her scowl deepened at his renewed laughter. His shaving kit was on the counter and she began to dig through it. She briefly considered flushing his toothbrush but decided that would be childish and pulled out his razor instead. She brandished it at him when he opened the door.  
  
"Don't be so stubborn," he said. "You're just going to dull the blade that way. Turn around."  
  
"Right," she replied, eyeing the knife in his hand warily. He sighed.  
  
"I've already done all the damage I intend to do today. Now turn around. Unless you'd prefer to wear that rag, in which case I'll be more than happy to arrange for a cab back to your own hotel. You can't stay here if you insist on remaining in that... garment." He wrinkled his nose. "To be honest, Agent Bristow, it reeks."  
  
Much as she hated to admit it, he had a point. She sighed in resignation and piled her hair on top of her head as she turned. She tried not to flinch as he touched her bare back. His hand was startlingly warm against her cold skin. He grinned at her in the mirror and she failed to resist making a face at him. He cut the tie with a deft flick of the knife, never once looking away from her gaze.  
  
"My bathroom is your bathroom," he said as he stepped away from her. "Make yourself at home."  
  
She slammed the door on him again and locked it - for all the good she knew that would do. A hotel bathroom door lock. He could probably pick it with his thumbnail without even thinking about it. Deciding to trust for the moment, however, that he would mind his manners, she peeled off her wet clothes and left them in a soggy puddle as she stepped into the shower.  
  
The hot water was wonderfully soothing. She took great pleasure in unwrapping the French soap and breaking the seals on all of the bottles of shampoo. When she was satisfied that all of the river filth and street grime had been scrubbed off, she simply stood luxuriating in the clean spray that pounded her shoulders. Her hand still stung where the cable had sliced it and her ankle was still throbbing. With the twist of a few knobs, Sydney turned the shower into a bath.  
  
She could stay in here all night, she thought as she eased into the slowly rising water. A little more experimenting with the knobs started a gentle bubbling from the jets built into the sides of the oversized tub. There were two more containers on the small ledge beside her - bath beads and crystals. After a very brief deliberation, she dumped a handful of each into the water. As she was setting the canisters back on the shelf she noticed that her clothes were no longer in a heap on the floor.  
  
"Sark!" Realizing that shouting at him would probably prompt a response, she tugged the shower curtain nearly closed again. The door opened slightly and he met her glare in the mirror. "Where are my clothes?"  
  
"Being burned, if my instructions are being followed precisely," he said. "You weren't actually intending to put them on again, were you?"  
  
"What am I supposed to wear now?" She was exasperated to see him grin wickedly.  
  
"There's a bathrobe on the back of the door, dear."  
  
To her chagrin, he was right. A big, fluffy white bathrobe. It had probably been there the whole time. She hated him. She really did. He closed the door again before she could reach the soap to throw at him. When her fingers and toes had completely turned to prunes she finally climbed out of the tub and put on the robe. She wrapped a towel around her head and walked out to face her not-as-reluctant-as-he-ought-to-be temporary benefactor.  
  
The room was bigger than she'd noticed at first glance. She'd been a little preoccupied when she had stomped through it earlier. Sark was seated at a table on the far side of the suite, typing industriously at a laptop. He was still wearing the same clothes he'd worn at the embassy, minus the jacket and tie. The sleeves of his white button-down were rolled up and the buttons were undone to reveal the t-shirt beneath. He glanced up, ran an appraising gaze over her, and smirked before turning his attention back to the screen. Damned if everything she did didn't just seem to amuse the hell out of him. She stalked across the room and dropped into the chair across from him.  
  
"Coffee?" she asked hopefully as she noticed the mug sitting beside his computer.  
  
"Tea," he corrected with a stern frown. "Do you know how bad for you coffee is? Twenty-nine different kinds of acids, tars, and other charmingly carcinogenic substances. Ten grams of caffeine can be lethal."  
  
"Given the lives we lead, Marty, I really don't think it's the caffeine that's going to kill us."  
  
"Will you stop calling me that if I admit that I made it up?"  
  
"It wouldn't irritate you nearly so much if it wasn't your real name," she smiled at him sweetly. "So just how sick were you to actually tell me that?"  
  
"Sicker than I'd realized apparently," he muttered. She laughed.  
  
"So there's no coffee?"  
  
"No coffee."  
  
"Not even decaf?"  
  
"They scrub out the caffeine with methylene chloride."  
  
"No coffee at all?"  
  
"None," he said. "Three different kinds of tea though."  
  
"You are such a Brit."  
  
"Early indoctrination can be a bit difficult to overcome," he admitted with a grin. "Why are you here, Sydney?"  
  
She shrugged as she rose to pour herself a cup of tea. "You owe me."  
  
"That's it?"  
  
"What? You can show up at my door for absolutely no reason whatsoever and I need a brilliant excuse?"  
  
"Well, yes," he grinned. "I'm generally not accountable to anyone else about my personal life. You, I suspect, could be court-martialed for socializing with me."  
  
"They don't court-martial civilians and we are not socializing. You are repaying a debt. And you think that my mother wouldn't be curious to know why you came to me a few months ago?"  
  
"I think that both of your parents are downright terrifying. Would you care to explain to either of them why you came to me tonight? What about Dixon? Isn't your partner going to be concerned?"  
  
"Solo op," she shrugged again. "Nobody cares where I am tonight. Tomorrow though... I don't suppose I could talk you out of those files?"  
  
"No, you couldn't talk me out of them," he smirked. "But you're welcome to try other methods of persuasion."  
  
"In your dreams, Marty." She rolled her eyes but was surprised to catch a peculiar flicker in his expression. His smile had become oddly pensive.  
  
"You know your mother kept surveillance on you as you were growing up," he said slowly. "I saw my first photos of you when I was fifteen. You were in college then, I think."  
  
She stared at him blankly for a moment as she tried to follow his train of thought. She knew that he couldn't be implying what it sounded like he was implying. A knock at the door startled her and his expression suddenly shifted back to its more familiar grin.  
  
"That would be for you, I imagine," he said, chuckling at her bemusement. When he returned from answering the door he handed her a small package. "I requested that they find you something suitable based on the sizes of the clothing to be burned. It appears that, so far, undergarments are all they've managed to locate. There aren't that many stores open this late."  
  
"I'll bet. So I'm supposed to sleep in a bathrobe?"  
  
"If you're very nice I might let you have my last clean shirt."  
  
"If I promise not to kill you in your sleep you can hand it over right now."  
  
"Negotiations with you are always so entertaining," he relented, pulling the shirt out of the closet.  
  
Sydney retreated to the bathroom once again. To her surprise and relief, the underwear was tastefully modest and fit perfectly. The shirt was much too large, of course, but surprisingly softer than she had expected. So was Sark's expression when she reemerged.  
  
"I think I like that on you better than the dress."  
  
"Before or after it was ruined because of you?"  
  
"Either."  
  
She snorted at him. "It was a designer original. Do you have any idea how much it cost?"  
  
"It was just a dress," he shrugged. "But that... That's my shirt." The look he gave her was curiously proprietary for an instant before he laughed softly to himself. "Goodnight, Sydney. Mi cama es su cama." He nodded toward the bed then turned back to the laptop.  
  
She watched him for a little longer but he appeared to have no intention of going to bed himself. She gave a mental shrug and crawled between the sheets. Their thread-count was at least a hundred higher than what she could have expected at her own hotel. She wondered what Kendall would say if she asked for an expense account that would cover something like this on her next mission. She hadn't realized just how tired she was until she lay down. As she tried to doze off she also realized that Sark's quiet tapping at the keyboard wasn't nearly as soothing as his breathing had once been. After twenty minutes she sat up.  
  
"Don't you ever sleep?" she asked. And immediately regretted it as he glanced up at her and grinned.  
  
"Are you asking me to come to bed, Agent Bristow?"  
  
"That light is annoying," she groused.  
  
"All you have to do is ask me to turn it off."  
  
"Stay up all night if you want to, Marty."  
  
"I'll do whatever you want if you'll just stop calling me that," he said as she pulled the blanket over her head.  
  
Sometime later she discovered that he hadn't stayed up all night after all. The bed was large but the two of them seemed to be attempting to occupy the same two-foot-wide swath of it. Her head rested on his chest and she could feel his heartbeat. She could also feel one of his hands tangled in her hair and the other resting on the small of her back. She was briefly disoriented by the discrepancy between the soft cotton beneath her cheek and the bare skin beneath her hand, but soon realized it was because her hand was under his t-shirt. She tried to withdraw it without disturbing him, but he entirely misinterpreted the motion. As her fingers slid lightly across his skin, his arms tightened reflexively, making it all but impossible for her to move.  
  
"Cold hands, Syd," he muttered as she froze. He stirred restlessly for a moment, settled her more comfortably against him, and subsided once again.  
  
It wasn't until she was certain his steady breathing meant he was still asleep that Sydney realized she'd been holding her own breath. It really was a shame that he was such an amoral bastard, she thought as she exhaled slowly and relaxed. Her fingers absently traced a thin scar they'd found along his lower ribs as she felt his hand burrow deeper into her hair. How was it that she could feel so at ease in the arms of a sociopath?  
  
Maybe it was because she couldn't think of anyone scarier. If the toughest opponent she knew could hold her so protectively -even if he was asleep and snoring ever so slightly- what could she possibly have to fear from anything else? Her last conscious thought before drifting off again was that it was very, very wrong to be so content under such ridiculous circumstances.  
  
Two hours later she was astonished to see that he was still there. They lay nose to nose now and she stared into a pair of blurry blue eyes.  
  
"It's my hotel room," he pointed out, apparently interpreting her shocked expression with ease. "That means you're the one required to flee at dawn."  
  
"Is that what you did last time? Run away?"  
  
"I had a plane to catch." His smile was still sleepy, but there was a growing alertness in his eyes. "You didn't want me to stay, did you?"  
  
"You could have at least left me the cough syrup. I had a head cold for a week and a half after that thanks to you."  
  
"Everything is always my fault," he sighed, blinking at her so innocently that she had to smile. He looked so indolent that she was completely taken by surprise when he suddenly kissed her.  
  
The move was so unexpected that her body responded before her mind could sort it all out. He didn't taste like cough medicine, she thought inanely as the kiss deepened. When her brain caught up with the situation she pushed him away and sat up. He stared up at her as if he wasn't quite certain what had possessed him to do something so bizarre either. Then he gave her a slow grin.  
  
"Feel free to use my toothbrush," he said. "You've been everywhere it has now."  
  
She threw the pillow at him as she climbed out of bed and stormed into the bathroom. When she saw the brand-new plastic-wrapped toothbrush sitting next to the sink she didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Or storm back out and shove it down his throat sideways. Her new dress was hanging on the back of the door and there was a box containing a pair of sandals on the cabinet.  
  
When she reemerged fully dressed, Sark was still in bed. He appeared to be asleep again but when she approached he opened his eyes.  
  
"We're even now," she told him. He gave her a crooked grin.  
  
"You don't really have to leave."  
  
"We're not allies."  
  
"We could be."  
  
"Not in this lifetime, Marty."  
  
"What do I have to do to at least negotiate that up to a 'Martin'?"  
  
"Stop screwing up my missions. Quit giving me colds. Stop making my life so difficult."  
  
"What if I just start calling you 'Syd' instead?"  
  
She laughed softly and shook her head. She didn't look back as she left.  
  
* * * * 


	3. three

Uninvited, part 3   
  
- S3, pre-"Prelude"  
  
* * *  
  
She entered her apartment warily. Something had felt wrong from the instant she'd opened the door and now the noises coming from the kitchen confirmed her worst suspicions. She drew her gun and crept slowly through the living room. Her finger twitched on the trigger but she didn't fire. A sardonic drawl rose from behind the open refrigerator door.  
  
"For future reference, Agent Bristow, milk should not -under any circumstances- rattle."  
  
"Damn it, Sark!" she spluttered in outrage. "What the hell are you doing in my kitchen?"  
  
"Being extremely appalled by your housekeeping skills." The blond assassin straightened from his perusal of the fridge and shook the carton of milk in question. It made an unpleasant squelching sound that she had to agree was decidedly unnatural for something that should have been a liquid. "And while I believe that cheese is best when properly aged," he continued, frowning critically at a fuzzy, green block in his other hand. "This is clearly not properly aged."  
  
"I'm going to ask you one more time before I shoot you," she said. "What are you doing here?" To her utter exasperation, Sark merely gave her gun a dismissive glance before dropping the milk carton and cheese into her trash bin and turning back to the refrigerator.  
  
"I was in the neighborhood," he said as he rummaged through the depths. "Why do you have no proper food?"  
  
She stared at him in frustration, infuriated by his invasion of her apartment and his refusal to be intimidated by the gun she still aimed at him. How dare he act as if he had all the right in the world to be there?   
  
"This is not some cheap Romanian hotel that you can just barge into, Sark. This is my home."  
  
"I'm not here to fight with you," he said without bothering to glance up. "And you aren't going to shoot me. I think we can manage quite civilly if we try, Sydney. Was this a tomato?" He didn't wait for an answer before sending it after the milk and cheese.  
  
"Look, you scavenger rat, I don't know what you think you're doing, but this is unacceptable. You can't just wander in and out of here as if we weren't on opposite sides. You've done things- I've- You can't just stand there acting like you aren't responsible for at least half of what's wrong with my life these days. We are not going to do this. Not again."  
  
"How long has this been in there?" He held up a cardboard pizza box and looked at her expectantly. He hadn't listened to a word she'd said. She glared at him. He blinked back at her patiently. Clearly he wasn't going to talk until he was damn good and ready and there was no point in driving herself crazy trying to pry it out of him. She sighed in resignation and gave up. It looked like they were going to do this again after all.   
  
And why not? She had gone to him in Paris not three hours after he'd sold her out to embassy security. Why shouldn't he come to her just a few weeks after she'd handed him over to people who were likely to kill him? She shied away from that thought - and tried to ignore the queasy sensation that the recollection brought. She still couldn't shake the feeling that the CIA hadn't been playing fair that day. The good guys weren't supposed to bargain with people's lives like that, were they?  
  
"How long?" Sark asked again, amusement in his voice at her wool-gathering.  
  
"A day or two," she shrugged. "I don't know."  
  
"What are the orange things on it?"  
  
"Mango." She put her gun away.  
  
Sark studied the pizza appraisingly for a moment before setting it on the counter. "Can you heat it in the microwave?"  
  
"I am not cooking for you," she said, but he was already ignoring her again. He reemerged with a bottle of beer in each hand and gave her a condescending look.  
  
"I wasn't asking you to cook it. It was simply culinary curiosity. I'm not familiar with the art of leftovers. Will it get soggy or hard if it's microwaved?"  
  
"Depends on how long you leave it in. You're supposed to eat leftover pizza cold, though." Sark wrinkled his nose in disgust.  
  
"After three months in CIA custody, I would have killed for a steak and a nice Merlot," he said. "After two years of institutional food, I would have done it for a Coney Island hot dog and a warm soda had there been opportunity. My tastes may have degenerated significantly over the past couple of years, but I am not eating that cold."  
  
Sydney sat down on a barstool and propped her elbows on the bar. She watched him roam the kitchen randomly opening cabinet doors and drawers.  
  
"What do you want, Marty?" she asked wearily.  
  
"A bottle-opener."   
  
"Next to the stove." She rolled her eyes at his grin of accomplishment when he found it. Sark opened both bottles of beer and set one before her. He took a swig of the other himself and squinted at the microwave. "Is a minute long enough?"  
  
"Leave it in that long and you might as well try eating the box. And you can't just toss a slice in there on the glass. It'll make a mess. At least put it on a paper towel." Both of them glanced at the empty cardboard roll in the holder by the sink. "I think I'm out of paper towels," she was forced to admit.   
  
"Leftovers are much too complicated," Sark decided, tipping the pizza into the trash bin along with the rest of the questionable former contents of her refrigerator. "I wasn't that hungry anyway."  
  
Sydney frowned at him. She could tell by the angular planes of his face that he'd become entirely too accustomed to not eating. He'd seemed thin the first time she'd seen him again, sitting in her mother's old cell, and the weeks since he'd regained his freedom seemed to have made little difference. He stared back at her with tired blue eyes and she was reminded of the night he'd looked up from a hotel room floor wearing a very similar expression. She'd gone searching for cough syrup at midnight because of it. She shook her head abruptly. If she didn't stop thinking like that, she was going to end up cooking for him after all.  
  
"Crackers," she said. "Top shelf, next to the stove. There shouldn't be anything wrong with them."  
  
He retrieved the box and studied it somberly before deciding it met his approval. He carried the crackers into her living room and dropped unceremoniously onto her sofa. Still shaking her head at the insanity, Sydney followed him with her own bottle and the one he'd left on the counter.  
  
"What are you doing? There's a pack already open," she said as he began unwrapping another sleeve of crackers.  
  
"They're stale."  
  
"You didn't even try…" She sighed and surrendered the argument at his knowing smirk and took the handful of saltines that he offered. She really needed to go grocery shopping. Crackers and beer. With a charming terrorist. Should the psychotherapy come before or after the shopping?   
  
She watched in baffled wonder as Sark kick off his shoes. Any lingering suspicion that this might be a professional visit was dispelled when he propped his feet on her coffee table. Like his unwelcome appearance in Bucharest, like her unscheduled visit in Paris, this impromptu invasion had nothing to do with state secrets. For as long as these encounters lasted, they weren't the official representatives of anyone. She wasn't Agent Bristow of the CIA; he wasn't Mr. Sark of… whatever shady organization-of-the-day had enlisted him. She paused at that thought, snorted lightly, and shook her head at his quizzical expression.  
  
"You are completely ruining your cool spy reputation," she told him. "According to your Agency profile, you ought to be off somewhere exotic being aloof and mysterious, impeccably dressed and drinking something horridly expensive. Instead, you're slouching on my sofa in a pair of khakis, drinking cheap beer with your feet on my furniture."  
  
He frowned at his half-empty bottle thoughtfully and then glanced over at her. "So at least I'm still being aloof and mysterious?"  
  
"Try aggravating and incomprehensible. And you're getting cracker crumbs everywhere." She reached across to brush at the specks that dusted the front of his shirt. She stopped when she realized what she was doing, but he was already smirking. "Fine, wear the crackers," she groused.  
  
"Do you ever feel like we've stepped into an alternate universe where the whole world has gone mad and you and I are the only sane people here?" he asked, flicking halfheartedly at the rest of the crumbs.   
  
She blinked at the non sequitur, then had to smile sardonically. "Governor Schwarzenegger? Sloane the humanitarian? 'American Idol 6'? I think the world's gone mad every single day. I usually don't include you on my short list of the sane though. Some days even I don't make the cut," she added ruefully.   
  
"I imagine that you find the Boy Scout's marriage a bit disconcerting as well." She frowned at the comment but was surprised by the lack of sarcasm in his voice. "He was never a good match for you anyway."  
  
For a moment he sounded so unsettlingly like her father that she had to laugh despite the swift jolt of pain that his words caused. Sark's suddenly perplexed expression only fueled her amusement.  
  
"I assume you're over Agent Vaughn then?"  
  
"Not that it's any of your business, but I'm managing. It's not as if there's anything I can do about it anyway."  
  
"Then maybe you're not as resourceful as I'd always assumed," he said with mock-severity. "With a little imagination, I'm certain that you could find a way to resolve Ms. Reed's inconvenient presence. Surely you have the contacts."  
  
"Well, I do know a guy who's been out of circulation for a while. He could probably use some target practice." She tried to match his teasing tone, but her words came out sounding more cynical.  
  
"Actually, I don't believe he's available for that assignment."  
  
"Don't tell me he suddenly grew a conscience."  
  
"No, but he doesn't have any particular interest in liberating Michael Vaughn."  
  
Sydney eventually realized that she was gaping at him and looked away from his oddly solemn gaze.   
  
"Marshall's getting married," she blurted in the awkward pause. "You remember Marshall, don't you?" She cringed inwardly at her own babbling, but Sark's peculiar disclosure had flustered her.  
  
"Flinkman," he nodded and smiled faintly. "Remarkable. I reiterate my assertion that the rest of the world has gone mad."  
  
"Be nice," she scolded him, back on more familiar footing once again. "I think it's adorable. And he's going to be a father soon."  
  
"Now there's a truly terrifying thought."  
  
"You really are incorrigible."  
  
"Wherever did you get the idea that I wasn't?"  
  
She rolled her eyes at his grin, but she had to wonder nonetheless. She was a CIA officer; he was an unrepentant criminal. She was obligated to oppose him - not feed him or provide him shelter. She wasn't supposed to look after him when he was sick or rely on him when she needed accommodations of her own. She wasn't supposed to be amused by his wit or to enjoy their verbal sparring. Seeing him on a "social" basis was almost certainly an act of treason. So why was she okay with his company tonight? Why had she felt no guilt at their previous off-the-record encounters? Why had she slept so contentedly with his heart beating beneath her cheek?  
  
"You and I aren't so different," he said as if reading her mind. "Especially now."  
  
"At least you remember the past two years." She hoped that her flippant reply would disguise her troubled thoughts.  
  
"Six hundred and eighty-three days of relentless tedium. I'd almost be willing to trade you."  
  
"Big gaping holes and really lousy nightmares. I'd almost be willing to take you up on that." She didn't realize until she saw his curious look that she had unconsciously pressed her hand over the scar in her side. She briefly considered shrugging off his unspoken question. She tugged out her shirttail instead and watched his face carefully. There was only the subtlest deepening of his frown. She flinched as he reached toward her, but his fingertips hovered just over the scar without touching it.  
  
"I don't believe I want to swap after all," he said lightly, leaning back again. She was unaccountably relieved that he didn't ask if she remembered how it had happened. "The CIA seems to have had a much better healthcare plan for its inmates. Although I expect you're experiencing that for yourself now, aren't you? How many psychiatrists have they made you visit thus far? Have you enjoyed the group therapy?"   
  
She made a face at him as she tucked her shirt back in. "You're really not as funny as you think you are."  
  
"It's not my fault if you don't have a proper sense of humor."  
  
"I don't think there's anything about you that's proper," she retorted.  
  
"Now you're just being petty."  
  
"And you're the one who thinks we're alike."  
  
"Similar, not identical," he replied archly and took another drink before continuing. "I believe that we have rather similar goals these days. We both want to make the Covenant pay for what they've taken from us." Sydney tensed at his words and wondered how much of the truth he knew. "I probably ought to thank you, though," he continued in a conversational tone. "If I hadn't come into my inheritance, the Covenant would have had no reason to extract me. It seems that regardless of what it cost, I owe you for my freedom, Sydney… Or should I say that I owe Julia?"  
  
At some level, she had known that he had to be aware of her involvement, but she had tried to avoid thinking about it. It had been hard enough to admit to herself that she had murdered a man. To acknowledge that Lazarey had been Sark's father…   
  
"You know, of course, that I don't blame you for my father's death. Either you or Julia. Even if you'd done it willingly, it's not as though I would have taken it personally. I didn't know him." For a moment, his disaffected mask slipped, however, and she realized that he wasn't as indifferent as he wanted her to believe. Her throat tightened with guilt and remorse.   
  
"I'm sorry," she whispered. He snorted softly.  
  
"There's no point in apologizing for something that isn't your fault. You don't even remember doing it. And in a way, perhaps, now we're even."  
  
"Francie," she said hoarsely.   
  
"I am no more to blame for your friend's death than you are for my father's," he said. "Perhaps less. I neither ordered it nor implemented it."  
  
She stared at him. "I'm supposed to forgive you for Francie's death because you're forgiving me for killing your father?"   
  
"It's not about forgiveness; it's about responsibility." His voice was level, but Sydney could hear the strain in it. "It's as senseless for you to blame me for something I didn't do as it is for me to blame you for something you had no control over. The losses are regrettable, but the culpability lies elsewhere."  
  
She found that -against all logic- she wanted to believe him. Of all the deaths she was certain that he had caused, she didn't want him to be responsible for this one. She was disturbed to realize that his perverse rationalization almost seemed to make sense. Despite the fact that she knew he had to have been involved at some point, she was prepared, if not to absolve him of Francie's murder, at least to relinquish the need for retribution on the grounds that he hadn't planned it or pulled the trigger himself. Was it any more bizarre than his excusing her murder of his father because she couldn't remember doing it? She understood his reasoning. What did that say about her?  
  
"It won't bring back Lazarey or return your lost years," Sark said, his words cutting through her thoughts. "But I do believe that taking down the Covenant and retrieving my money would provide us both with a certain sense of satisfaction. After that, perhaps disabusing this mad world of its 'Sloane the humanitarian' delusion might be in order."  
  
"You're going to make your 'we'd work well together' pitch again, aren't you?"   
  
"Nothing nearly so overt," he said. "The Medusa project was successfully concluded without any formal arrangement between us. There's no need to make things complicated." She stared at him in shock.   
  
"You son of a bitch! You did recognize me!"  
  
"Sydney, dear, that was a hideous excuse for a disguise."   
  
"You wanted us to blow up Medusa."  
  
"I would have been satisfied with something a bit less dramatic, but your solution was adequate given the circumstances."  
  
"Son of a bitch," she muttered again as she slumped back against the couch to let his revelations soak in. Regardless of his motives, Sark had deliberately leaked information to the CIA - and on more than one occasion, she suddenly suspected as she mentally reviewed other recent missions. Just when she thought her life couldn't get any more complicated, trust Sark to throw yet another twist into it.  
  
She was beginning to fear that she couldn't tell the good guys from the bad guys anymore. She was lying to her friends, keeping things from them - not to protect them as she had done before her disappearance, but to protect herself. Dixon and Vaughn had new obligations and responsibilities -both personally and professionally- that might preclude their ability to help her. She knew she could rely on her father unconditionally, but she was beginning to worry about the methods he was willing to use in the name of shielding her. She wasn't sure how long either of them would be able to continue justifying his actions.   
  
The one person that she should be most afraid of was assisting her, albeit for reasons of his own, and was the one person she felt completely safe with. She watched him idly peeling the label off his now-empty beer bottle and wondered if she would feel as protected in his arms now as she had that night in Paris. She suspected that she probably would. It disturbed her that the admission didn't disturb her more than it did.  
  
"We're still not on the same side," she said at last.  
  
"Not by any means," he agreed. "But the enemy of my enemy…"   
  
"We're not friends."  
  
"Allies."  
  
"Not exactly."  
  
Sark snorted. "Rivals with a common adversary. Must you be so difficult about everything?"  
  
"I'm still one of the good guys," she said, wondering which of them she was trying to convince. "We have rules about this sort of thing." At least she hoped they did. She helped herself to a few more crackers as they lapsed into silence. They both watched the evening shadows lengthen across the room.  
  
"Don't you have anything stronger?" he asked eventually. "Cristall? Glenfiddich?"   
  
"I thought you said your tastes had degenerated," she said, shaking her head at his hopeful look. "You're still too damned expensive. All I have is Cuervo."  
  
He sighed. "That will have to do."  
  
"Cabinet," she pointed. "In the back." She wasn't going to play hostess after he'd already made himself so at home. If he wanted it, he could go get it. He tilted his head as if trying to decide whether it was worth the effort. "Glasses are on the second shelf," she added when he finally got up. He found the bottle easily enough but his attention seemed distracted by something else in the cabinet. She had to smile at the CD case when he held it up questioningly.  
  
"Marshall," she explained. "He compiled a mix of songs I missed while I was…gone."  
  
"While you were Julia," he corrected absently. He had flipped the case over and was studying the list Marshall had penned there. She could see no recognition in his eyes and realized that the songs were undoubtedly even more unfamiliar to him than they were to her. At least she'd presumably had the opportunity to hear them before - even if she couldn't remember. He'd spent his own missing years in solitary confinement. For the barest moment, she felt a surge of pity for him.   
  
Though there was no comparison between what they'd each gone through, she couldn't help thinking as she watched him stare blankly at the case that he probably felt as out-of-place in this changed world as she did. It occurred to her that this might be part of the reason that he had come here tonight. They had both reentered a world that had gone on without them. She wondered if he had found certain aspects of his life as unrecognizable as she had, if he was grasping at this -their odd relationship- as the one thing which essentially hadn't changed.  
  
It was almost funny, she thought. She had killed his father. That should have changed everything. And yet it didn't. Sark seemed to have accepted it almost more easily than she had. Not even her alter-ego seemed to faze him in the slightest. Actually, he probably would have liked Julia.  
  
"Possibly," he said. Sydney was appalled to realize that she'd spoken the last thought aloud. He gave her a wry, tired smile. "But while I can appreciate a de Hory, that doesn't make it a Matisse."  
  
"I prefer to be thought of as a Renoir," she replied in the same tone, hoping he wouldn't notice how his odd compliment flustered her. "The disc is already in the player," she added. "I've never managed to listen to it all the way through." He nodded absently again as he turned it on. "Glasses," she reminded him, and he was thoughtful enough to bring back two. Sark poured them each a shot as a bright pop tune played. The sappy sweet lyrics were so utterly inappropriate for the situation that Sydney had to shake her head at the absurdity. Sark was on his second shot before the song was finished.  
  
"Suddenly I'm not so certain that I missed all that much," he said when a virtually unintelligible singer began to wail in the next piece.  
  
"The really sad thing is that I can't figure out if these are the songs Marshall thought were important over the past two years or if they're the ones he thought I'd like."  
  
"Either alternative is decidedly depressing." He poured himself yet another drink and Sydney held out her glass as well. Since getting drunk with Sark struck her as a fairly suicidal way to kill an evening, she didn't drink it immediately. Instead she watched him as he leaned his head back on the sofa. He stared up at her ceiling, his face utterly expressionless.  
  
"What are you running away from?" she asked. She was startled by her own question and wondered how much she had already been affected by the alcohol. She nodded at his empty glass. "That's your third shot in ten minutes. At that pace, I'm going to be peeling you off the floor in an hour or so. You want to explain why?"  
  
"No." It was a simple, flat denial, but it revealed more than perhaps he had intended. He wasn't denying that he was trying to avoid something; he just didn't want to discuss it.  
  
"I don't suppose you've talked to my mother lately," she said, trying another tack. Sark shook his head.  
  
"I suspect you've spoken with her more recently than I have. Our paths seem to have diverged." His tone was more unguarded than she would have expected.  
  
"You thought she'd get you out."  
  
"Two years was ample opportunity." He must have realized how bitter he sounded because suddenly he smirked at her to cover it. "I got bored. The interrogations did break up the monotony for a time, but even those became a little dull after the first few months, and they finally stopped asking about you." He poured himself another drink. "Your father had a rather persistent belief that I knew more than I did." He didn't expound on that and she realized that she didn't want him to. She was well aware of what her father was capable of on her behalf.   
  
It occurred to her that Sark hadn't fared too well at the hands of her family in general. Although she doubted that she would ever entirely understand his relationship with her mother, he clearly hadn't expected Irina's abandonment. Her dad had apparently used him as a target for his own pain and anger. And she herself had killed his father. Of all the places in the world that he could be getting plastered tonight, logically, her apartment was the last place he ought to want to be. She was a little disconcerted when his expression suddenly shifted. He frowned pensively as he studied her face.   
  
"That's a rather interesting fashion statement," he said. Sydney looked down defensively at her clothes, but to her annoyance, he only chuckled. She was startled when his fingers brushed her cheek, his thumb sliding across the corner of her mouth. "Crumbs, Sydney. Although I suppose I should allow you to wear them."  
  
"Thanks," she said, raising a hand self-consciously to brush at her mouth herself. She knew that her original gesture had been impulsive and unthinking. She didn't doubt Sark's had been entirely premeditated and she couldn't decide whether or not to be uneasy about that. His touch had been terribly gentle.  
  
"I can't take it any more," he declared suddenly. Sydney stared at him. "The music," he grinned. "It really is abysmal. Please tell me you have a remote for that player. I don't want to walk all the way back over there just to turn it off."  
  
Sydney fumbled through the stack of old newspapers on the coffee table, aggravated with herself for letting him rattle her once again. She knew that he was doing it deliberately. He enjoyed throwing her off-balance. As she aimed the remote at the CD player, she had to admit that she agreed with his assessment, though. She remembered why she had never made it all the way through the disc. They sat in silence for several minutes. Though she knew that she probably shouldn't, Sydney eventually poured them each another shot just for something to do.  
  
"The CIA found the records at the Cayman bank," she said to fill the void. "I told you, you don't look like a Martin." He lifted one shoulder noncommittally.  
  
"That name's a bit of a mouthful though, isn't it?" he said. She watched his profile as he stared at his drink and wondered at his disinterest. Did he find having an unfamiliar name ascribed to him as unsettling as she did?   
  
"So you don't mind if I just keep calling you Marty?"  
  
"As if my objections have ever deterred you."   
  
"It could be worse," she went on. It briefly crossed her mind that three shots of tequila chasing a beer, on top of nothing but crackers since lunch probably wasn't such a great idea. "Sark," she said. He raised an eyebrow questioningly and she grinned. "Sark of the Covenant."   
  
He looked at her blankly for a moment. Then his mouth tightened. His scowl lasted precisely four seconds before dissolving into a burst of unexpected laughter. He leaned forward and screwed the cap back onto the Cuervo.   
  
"Clearly we've both had enough of that," he said. "It's a pity you don't have anything more substantial than saltines to absorb the alcohol. You still have a bit there..." He reached toward her again but she batted his hand away.  
  
"You shouldn't have thrown away the pizza," she countered, wiping at her mouth again and hating his grin.   
  
"It wouldn't be good to eat something like that so soon before we went to bed anyway."  
  
Her eyes narrowed as he gave her a winsome smile. "You are not staying here, Marty."  
  
"It's much too late to find a hotel now."   
  
"The Agency always has a nice warm cell available for you."  
  
"I spent two years sleeping on a metal slab courtesy of the CIA. It is neither nice nor warm. Surely you can offer me something more appealing."  
  
"I'd have to be a lot drunker than I am to sleep with you."  
  
"As I recall, you were quite sober on previous occasions."  
  
"That was just sleeping, not…" She stopped abruptly and stared at him in dismay.  
  
"My dear Sydney," he said with a smirk that just dared her to shoot him. "Did you think I was propositioning you?"  
  
"Bastard," she muttered.  
  
"Just so we're clear," he continued mercilessly. "It's not a question of whether or not you would. It's merely a matter of sobriety?"  
  
"I hate you."  
  
"Doesn't have anything to do with it." He leaned toward her and the sofa suddenly seemed much too small. "You can hate me all you like, but you know we're connected. You know I understand you better than anyone - because you let me. You show me more than you show anybody else. More than your friends, more than your colleagues. And you know me better than anyone in return."   
  
"You're kidding, right? I barely know you at all." She realized that she wasn't even going to argue that he didn't know her. She had never bothered to put up any front for him. She had never pulled her punches, never been anything other than herself. She didn't doubt that knew her. "I don't know your birth date or how old you were the first time you killed someone. I don't know where you live or if you like dogs or old movies or ice cream or anything. I don't…"  
  
"Don't confuse trivia with knowledge," he interrupted. "You know who I am, what I'm capable of." He seemed to expect some sort of response and she nodded hesitantly. "You can make the distinction between when you can trust me and when we're at odds."  
  
"I suppose so."  
  
"You understand my sense of humor."  
  
"Unfortunately."  
  
"Do you think that I turn up on just anyone's doorstep when I'm ill?" he asked, leaning closer.  
  
She felt the beginnings of a smile despite his peculiar intensity. "I should hope not," she replied, pressing a hand against his shoulder to keep some distance between them. "You do snore when you're sick."   
  
"And how many people do you suppose know precisely how much it irritates me to be called 'Marty' and still get away with it?" He leaned harder against her hand, forcing her to push against his chest with her other hand. "You know me, Sydney."  
  
"Maybe," she admitted. "Maybe I do." She looked into his eyes and saw the challenge there. She understood, as clearly as she knew anything else, what he wanted at that moment, and she noted with a distinct lack of surprise that it wasn't exactly unthinkable. It was, after all, part of the game they'd been playing from the first time they'd met. Each encounter, each bantering exchange had brought them closer to this point. Though part of her mind knew that this course was recklessly unwise, she slowly relaxed her arms.  
  
He tasted of salt and tequila. His government-issue crew cut, still not grown out, was softer beneath her fingers than she had imagined it would be. His hands were warm as they slipped beneath her blouse and the buttons on his Oxford were easily undone. She felt his amusement at her frustration when she encountered the t-shirt beneath it.  
  
"Your wardrobe sucks," she murmured against his neck.  
  
"So does your couch. I'll remedy one if you resolve the other."  
  
"Deal," she agreed. "Get off me. The bedroom's that way."  
  
By the time they reached it, problematic attire was no longer an issue for either of them. His fingers brushed lightly over the wide scar on her side, but she sensed neither pity nor aversion from him. Her own hands traced ribs that shouldn't have been so conspicuous, but it didn't matter as his mouth moved against hers.  
  
"Sydney," he said softly, running his hands down her sides. "One small request." He pressed his forehead against hers and she tried unsuccessfully to focus on his clear blue eyes. "Martin, not Marty."  
  
She closed her eyes and buried her face in the curve of his neck, shaking with quiet laughter. He distracted her by raking short fingernails down the length of her spine. She lifted her head then and he smothered her last giggle with a kiss. After that, although she might try to remember his name, there were more compelling things vying for her attention.  
  
* * * *  
  
Unlike the last time she'd woken in his arms, the warmth of bare skin was not limited to the hand resting on his chest. She knew that he wasn't asleep by the way his thumb was tracing circles in the small of her back.  
  
"You're still here," she said without opening her eyes.  
  
"It's your day off," he mumbled, his voice still gravelly with sleep. "I can't see straight yet anyway. Don't do that," he added as she rolled up on one elbow to look down at him. "Don't move."  
  
Sark with a hangover, she marveled. Her own head wasn't completely clear, but she hadn't drunk nearly what he had the previous night.  
  
"Just out of curiosity, Marty, did you at least bring your own toothbrush this time?"   
  
He replied by running a hand through her hair and pulling her back down to kiss her thoroughly. "Not that sharing would make any difference at this point," he said. "But yes. I have a duffel in your bathroom."  
  
"You are an evil, manipulative bastard," she informed him after a moment's thought. He merely grinned, eyes still closed.  
  
"That's not exactly a revelation, Syd."  
  
"And I still hate you."  
  
"I'm perfectly aware of that. Now lie back down and be still."  
  
"Are you always this cranky in the morning?" she asked as she nestled against his shoulder once again.  
  
"Ask me again tomorrow."  
  
"You are not staying here all day."  
  
"Shhh." He brushed her hair out of his face then left his fingers tangled there. "We'll argue about it tomorrow."  
  
"I don't have any food."  
  
"Damn," he muttered. "We'll just have to send out for something. Eventually."  
  
Sydney sighed and gave up trying to get rid of him, content with failure. She languidly began drawing an abstract pattern on his chest, connecting the lines of old scars and new scratches, knowing that she was responsible for at least some of the former and all of the latter.   
  
"You know," she said after a few minutes. "For us to be even again, you're going to have to tell me where you live."  
  
"When I settle somewhere, you'll be the first to know."  
  
* * *  
  
* * *  
  
* * *  
  
author note:  
  
"Sark of the Covenant" is not my brilliant idea. I swiped it (with permission) from Mnemosyne. It really was too funny not to use. Thanks again. 


End file.
